The Hell on the Humber (HOTH) is an interesting event. Most people get into running to see new places, whether that be on the roads to explore a city or the trails that lie beyond. I have always been partial to the latter, bounding from rock to rock along Stanage Edge being one of my favourite stretches. There is something about being in the outdoors. Away from the noises of the city, the lights, the crowds. It is a place to get lost in your thoughts and before you realise it you’ve covered mile after mile, head torch dying and with no replacement batteries. Spicy. But the HOTH is different. See that big bridge? Pretty impressive isn’t it, how about looking at it for six or even 12 hours? Step after step of concrete with the occasional rattle of metal plates. Bliss… Well for some it is, attracting runners and walkers alike year on year to test their mental and physical fortitude. The event is simple. Run or walk for the allotted time back and forth across the bridge. Headphones are not permitted; music is a crutch. Just kidding, it’s for safety, to ensure that everyone is always aware of their surroundings. And finally, you have to complete one lap every three hours, making it open for those who want to walk at their own pace. The Halloween event, Ellie on the Humber, is run in memory of Ellie Penrose, a promising young athlete and student who sadly passed. The Ellie Penrose Fund was set up in her memory to provide sports equipment to those who cannot afford it.
I’ve entered HOTH (again at Halloween) once before in 2018. On very minimal training (basically none), I remember setting off with my dad before thinking this is far too slow, see you later old man. What I enjoy about distance running is how humbling it can be. Within a lap I was panting and wheezing and was soon caught up by Dad. We did 28 miles in six hours that year despite the official results showing I’d done one more lap than my dad (which promptly got corrected). In the grand scheme of things, it was a very unimpressive time for just over a marathon on a relatively flat course. But for a not that in shape 20ish year old with some of the worst training habits, I can’t really complain.
My 2022 entry was something of very last minute. I spent a good couple weeks umming and ahhing about whether I should enter. After deciding yes, I want to do it again, I had about a month to prepare specifically for six hours of road running. I had done barely any longer distances in the months leading up, with most runs coming in under 10km. I managed to get in a couple hilly half marathons and nearly did one full marathon before getting hit by a car at kilometre 41, luckily doing far more damage to the car in comparison to my damaged ego (and what would’ve been a new PB). This route took me out through the porter valley, along the back of Burbage before running up the main track to Stanage (lav it), down through Wyming Brook before a final and very flat round tour of Sheffield, finishing back at Endcliffe Park and onto the bonnet of a 20 year old Toyota Yaris. It would’ve been my first sub-four-hour marathon. I have never really been quick, I just like sitting at a nice comfort level and running, letting my mind wander and getting lost in the trails of my mind. And that’s why I like to run. Give me ten minutes of turning my legs over and whatever is plaguing my mind is pushed back by a curtain of clarity. It takes about 40 minutes for my body to properly kick in and start to enjoy the running, but it’s always worth it.
The original plan was to drive myself up with my partner, Fiona, who would act as support crew. I had prepared a plastic tub of everything we would need; spare shoes, extra layers, food, water, lights, drive home clothes for me, and a whole variety of snacks for her. However, my engine had different plans and decided to catastrophically fail, blowing the head gasket and dumping oil and coolant everywhere oil and coolant shouldn’t be. Given the cost of the car and hefty price of repairs it didn’t make sense to fix her, leading to my first car being sent to a breaker at the young age of 11. RIP Devi. So, with only 24 hours’ notice, I had to call my dad, tail between legs, begging for a lift.
I threw my things into the boot around 3 O’clock. The drive was a mix of me trying to choose music not so heavy as to get an annoyed reaction from Dad, but heavy enough to keep me psyched for the task ahead. I would’ve preferred the something a bit more growly to get me psyched up, but this would have to do. I kept singing along until dad said if he wanted to hear me sing, I’d be coming out of the speakers. I reasoned I was singing because I was happy, he just gave me the look. Better not annoy him. He had offered to sit for six hours in the cold and throw food and water at me, I could keep my mouth shut for an hour.
We arrived a little before registration was due to open so decided to pull into Hessle and have a mooch about. Dad fancied some fish and chips, but I didn’t think the grease would do me any favours. I instead opted for sausage rolls (famously not greasy… I am not a smart man), not optimal. I was expecting a warm bite, but they were all cold. I saved two for later. At this point I tried to convince myself I wasn’t nervous, but I noticed I had been walking off too quickly for Dad and having to wait. We passed a glass fronted garage on the way back with a few classic cars squeezed in. Surprisingly, the one presented right at the front was one of Dad’s first cars, complete with a lack of headrests and zero leg room. Got to love ye olde health and safety.
Arriving at the lorry park, we got out. I realised I had to get changed into my run stuff, which meant getting starkers. Luckily there weren’t too many people and we had parked at the edge of those already there. Unluckily, I chose the exact time four cars pulled in and past us to have my tackle out. I like to think no one got blinded by a full moon at four O’clock in the afternoon, but I can’t be sure. The walk in was more demoralising than the run, especially when I realised we could have driven right up to the start, unloaded everything, then moved the car. I was probably, and am, being a bit dramatic. I got signed in and bought £10 worth of raffle tickets. I’ve benefited from a very similar grant to the Ellie Penrose Fund, it helped massively so giving back to someone else was a no-brainer. We set the little beach tent up and I laid out the things I would need. I put the bananas and boost bars in a alternating pattern. There’s something I have always found appealing about organising and arranging. Dad had a chuckle at this, making the point I wouldn’t be the one grabbing anything and promptly rearranged the tent and got his chair positioned next to the path.
It is important to have goals, and I know I put too much pressure on myself to achieve things. I would take on far too much and grind away, not realising that it was taking a serious toll on my mental health and the way I perceive a healthy life. I had laboured over what distance I wanted to run. Just run for the six hours, not specific enough. Finish in the top five, I didn’t think this was realistic. Do nine laps, that sounds about right. It was one more than I had managed four years ago, and I have done a lot of long distance runs and hikes since then, so I was hoping for muscle memory and any residual fitness to carry me. It was a push but not unrealistic, as goals should be. 36 miles in six hours. That’s an average of 6mph (9.66kmph) or 10:00/mile (6:10/km). I also had to remember it was a last-minute sign up with very minimal and not really efficient training, mixed in with a not great headspace. I was still reeling over the loss of my car.
I would’ve liked to talk about the run on a lap-by-lap basis but given much of it has melted into a single lap within a multiverse of laps inside my head, I will do my best to give a somewhat chronological account.
We gathered at the start cone and received the pre-race briefing. There was costumes galore; spiderman, skeleton t-rex, superwoman, bat woman, Jack Skellington, the flash, poison ivy, and my favourite, the squid game gang. Photos were taken, making sure to get the bridge in the background, and before I knew it the countdown had begun. Karl set us off and there I was, running under the bridge and up around the loop, past the makeshift shantytown of support tents, chairs, even BBQ’s, up and onto the bridge. My heart is always racing before an event. The anticipation of the unknown. Will I pace myself well? Will I get a niggle, an injury? Will I achieve what I want to? Running is as much of a mental game as it is physical, as I imagine every other sport is, though it is argued once you get into the real big leagues of ultra-running that split is more like 90 / 10. Letting doubt creep in undoubtedly limits our potential, and this only compounds the longer you are out there. I was resolved to run the entire time.
It quickly became clear who I was racing against. I don’t know names, so I will just refer to them as I did in my head during the run. Yellow Lumo (YL) lead the pack, he didn’t wear a hydration pack or belt, but set off at such a pace I assumed he was well trained and well prepared. Following was Orange Lumo (OL). He wore a small vest that is used to carry keys and a phone. The was also Beard Man (great beard), Muscly Guy (big mooscles), and Bat Woman (surprisingly enough, dressed as Bat Woman).
I was eager and the pent-up energy materialised like a dog with a rabbit in its sights. I clung to YL’s heels for the first few kilometres before checking the pace on my watch. 4:30/km. Silly. Keeping this up I would be spent within the first couple hours and be reduced to painful and humbling hobbling. I hadn’t done nearly enough training to make an impressive distance, and I could hear my dad’s words, don’t go out too quickly, so I slowed it down and let him pull away. We were 15 minutes into a six-hour race, he would either slow and I would catch up, or he would pull away because he was prepared, and it would be deserved.
The first time I ran down the ramp and got sight of Dad, I could tell he knew I’d gone out too quick, but he thankfully kept the comments till after the race. OL made a point of pulling ahead of me and then sitting a couple metres in front. A free windbreak I thought, brilliant. The first few laps were much of the same. YL would pull out ahead, finishing each lap a good 200m to 300m in front of me. He would stop just after the turnaround point where a couple of friends or family were waiting to refuel him and send him on his way again. I would glide down the ramp and try make out if Dad could see me. I’d then bark instructions at him. Two soft flasks and a banana. A bottle and a boost. Just two soft flasks. He would then hurry to get everything ready within the 30 or so seconds it’d take me to get to the turnaround point and back. One of the great things about running events (and I guess any event) is that its full of people psyched on the thing you are also proper psyched on. Each time I, and anyone else, passed the checkpoint desk, there’d be an uproar of cheers and clapping and hollering. I think this acted as more of a boost to morale than any high energy bite or salt tab (of which I had neither, because my preparation for the whole thing was pretty poor). The women on the checkpoint quickly learned my name and each time I would be greeted by a WIIIIIIIILLLLLLL and we would exchange a few words before running off again. I’d ask their favourite horror films, characters, and just how they were doing. I couldn’t hang about for long answers, so these conversations were brief and hurried, but I felt a strengthening relationship with these people I didn’t even know the names of. It kept me going, with each lap feeling stronger and stronger (but this just might be the fact I started to pace a bit better). I was also bolstered by messages of support from Fiona every hour, on the hour. I had said I was unlikely to respond, but periodically feeling the buzz of my phone and seeing each message of encouragement reignited my drive. Another hour had passed, and I was still going.
At the start of each lap dad would be poised at the path with my requested nutrition. I would exchange rubbish and empty bottles for filled ones. I also kept a bottle of Lucozade along the spiral path to the bridge, taking drinks of it on the way up and down and stashing it next to a signpost at the top. There were a few dogs about, and I just hoped they stayed away… I hadn’t actually trained using any energy drinks, except on the nearly marathon where I chugged a LIDL Kong Energy and a Lucozade after running out of food and water because it was completely unplanned, but luckily my stomach didn’t rebel. Food was bananas and boost bars. I wish I had picked up some gels.
It was about lap four or five where I took, and held, the lead. I had been gaining on YL. He was taking longer and longer breaks at the end of each lap and I sensed he had definitely burned out from his lightning quick pace over the first few. OL was nowhere to be seen after I’d overtaken him until much later in the race where his pace was much reduced. I bounded down to the halfway turnaround point which took a wide, 180 degrees left turn down to the bottom of the path. I could see YL turn around the cone and begin to walk. This was it. I rounded the corner, said my hello and goodbye to the marshal, and continued running up the hill. I passed him. He said Go on mate, and I replied with You’ve got this, keep going. He didn’t. Dad said after he finished that lap he retired from the race. I’ve read about how people had been broken by other runners bounding past when they themselves were flagging. But this was usually in the latter half of 100 milers, not three or so hours in. I wasn’t too sure how to feel about this. On one hand I was proud of myself for how well I had done. On the other, I couldn’t help feeling like it was my fault his race was cut short. I now realise this is ridiculous, we all have our own tolerances to pain, suffering, to being truly uncomfortable. I like to think mine is pretty high, but I am yet to really have it tested.
Running back and forth along the bridge means you will inevitably pass by each person at least once per lap. And this is where the sense of community nestled within those six hours comes from. You don’t know names but get a sort of feeling of who the people are. There’s the hello-ers, the well-doners, the high-fivers, the nodders, the smilers, the go-oners, the on-your-right-ers, the chatters, the passers, the costumed, the race-ready, the beamers. There were also a fair few ignorers. I guess I fell into the race-ready chatter group. I haven’t always liked talking with strangers, but over the last few years have come to enjoy having conversations with people I might never meet again, talking about your day or life, and the HOTH was no different. There are a few that have stuck with me. There was a woman walking on her own, we smiled and said hello on every lap. There was the squid game group, and I made far too many red-light jokes. There was a man handing out high fives. The sense of belonging was overwhelming.
On the return leg of lap six or so I had let the running take me. It was no longer a conscious effort and I fell into a comfortable rhythm and let my mind wander in thought, reserving a small piece to keep me from bumping into the other runners. I was so deep into this that I mistook the sound of a car flipping onto its roof on the road below as the rattling of materials in the back of a flat bed van. It was only when I entered my next lap and saw a large group of runners gawking over the side of the bridge that I saw the Mini, upside down with a van half into the central reservation.
Lap nine was a bit concerning. Around halfway across the bridge my inner thighs gave the first signs of cramp in unison. I wanted to stop but slowed to a walk instead and began massaging, hoping the feeling would pass. I was annoyed, I’d done the Trailwalker 100km in September and walked around the Isle of Wight in two days later that week without much more than muscle stiffness after the fact. Thankfully my legs eased up after a couple minutes and I could run again. It wasn’t much of a run, but I found my limit before the cramping sensation would begin and held it the best I could. The halfway marshal, who for some reason was on his own for the entire time, had been blaring metal from the back of his truck. Getting halfway through a lap was therefore a great motivator, especially seeing as headphones are banned at the HOTH. I don’t usually run with music but when your environment barely changes and there is nothing to see, it’s a great relief. This, combined with sitting at a comfortable pace, thankfully got me back for 36 miles. Goal achieved with time to spare!
My watch read 5:20:00ish elapsed when I rounded the start point, with a lap time of 00:44:21.8, or 6:55/km, this was a big decrease over my previous. If I had any hope being the outright lap winner, I knew I had to give one more push and head back out into the cold whilst battling the onset of cramp and complete a lap in 40 minutes, about 6:13/km. I think I’d asked for more water and maybe a banana, but this wouldn’t undo the damage I’d already done in poor preparation. I shuffled my way back up the ramp, just focussing on getting one foot in front of the other just quick enough as to not cause my inner thighs to seize. As I passed the bridge support point to what I would call the start of the bridge, Bat Woman (Rachael as I later learned), the women’s 1st place runner, passed by for the last time. She seemed to be gliding, her pace not appearing to have shifted from the last few laps, as if this was the end of her first lap. She gave one final shout of encouragement before retiring from the run. Maybe she wasn’t as fresh as she appeared, or maybe she knew it futile to go for a tenth with the time she had left. I’m not sure if this spurred me on or chipped away at my confidence. I think there I felt some of what YL felt. Thing is, I wanted ten laps in six hours. Giving in without a fight was not an option.
My legs felt heavy, my breathing wasn’t ragged or laboured, but my energy was spent. I kept moving forward. I didn’t see the point in retiring at the end of lap nine. I knew if I did, I would wonder What if? I couldn’t do that. I spend enough time worrying about the minutia of life to let it ruin the one activity I truly love. I kept pushing on, too hard. About halfway across the bridge the pain returned, and I had to resort to a power walk. My electrolytes were depleted and there was nothing at this point that I could do to fix that. Checking my watch, I saw my 20 minutes to get to the turnaround were almost up, and I was only just approaching the beginning of the descent. It would be another 800m to the turnaround point. I reached where the suspension cables disappear into concrete sarcophaguses and decided the tenth lap attempt should too be laid to rest and turned around. I didn’t see this as a failure. I had made the effort and fallen short. Maybe now I slightly regret not just going for it. I know I wouldn’t make it back for the cut off, but at least I would’ve done the full 40 miles. At the time I rationalised it as dad agreed to the six hours, not six and a bit, but now I know this to be foolish. Dad’s the kind of person who wants me to succeed, and he would’ve happily, and has, spent a full day waiting on me whilst I ran.
This last length was the most peaceful. It seemed to become quieter on the bridge. The wind faded and the traffic not five metres away became distant. The water 30m below gently lapping. The last nine laps punctuated with nods, high-fives, words of encouragement. This one, nothing. No other runners. Just me, the pavement, and the night. It was a stark difference. Were those who were in the main pack or groups having a better time? Why was being at the front so important to me? I mulled over these questions, unsure on exactly what my reasons were. I made it back to the turnaround point to cheers of ten laps, but quickly corrected them, saying I had turned around as there was no way I would make it back in time. I ran in circles until the timer hit zero. And that was it. Done. 39 miles in six hours. Three more than I wanted and furthest run out of all competitors. There’s no fanfare at the end. You simply finish, get your medal and t-shirt, and leave. In fact, when I got back to the start line, they were packing up. I gave dad a quick hug, thanked him for supporting me, and made a further donation to the Ellie Penrose Fund.
I walked back to the car with my box, had a quick leg massage, picked up a 20 box of McNuggets, and drive home to the second most activity induced restless sleep of my life. Then, a month and a half later, I received a small parcel containing a box of chocolates and a wooden plaque. My first 1st place.
Acknowledgements
I would like to say thank you to my dad, as always. He is the reason I got into running in the first place and has put aside so much time over the years to drive me about to reccy routes and sit about all day just to throw some food and water at me before pushing me on my way. Sitting for six hours in the dark and cold is never going to be fun, especially when your son is shouting instructions at you every 40 or so minutes, talking to him for less than a minute over 360 (0.28%). I am planning to do the Dark Peak 15 Trigs (amongst other routes) in 2023, and his support will be vital.
Thank you to Fiona for the messages of support during and staying up way past your bedtime to send them. What you thought was a little gesture went a very long way.
And a big thank you to Karl and the volunteers of HOTH, without who the event would not be what it is.
Stats
Distance: 62.74km
Avg Pace: 5:44/km
Moving time: 5:59:48 (had to stop when I dropped stuff – 0.05.% stopped)
Elevation Gain: 543m
Calories: 4139
Avg HR: 159bpm